But here is a poem, that was the first poem that was ever accepted for publication, so that was my first published poem in a reputable good poetry magazine and it tells you the entire story of this love affair, and it’s called, Lingonberries Are Not Sufficient... is the title. And that already shows, you know, it’s a bit more subtle because reading this title doesn’t tell you anything about what it’s all about.

When we met I spoke and you laughed. Just laughed.

‘Come live with me And write. I’ll feed and launder you.’ You laughed and came.

For a man to feed his lover, To do her laundry, To really give her Virginia Woolf’s Room of One’s Own Is a serious gift Not a laughing matter.

He - the tea drinker - learned to make coffee. Her type of coffee. The coffee grinder’s machine-gun rattle Was morning music to her ears. Dark French Roast, the only acceptable ammunition. The first cup brought to her to her shower, The next while she dried herself, The third, fourth and fifth at breakfast.

The heated bagel. The carefully segmented grapefruit Coloured with his personal touch: Lingonberries from Sweden.

You stopped laughing. You wrote poems. Like Scheherazade. As long as she spun tales She lived. As long as you wrote, Your pasha supported you In a style to which you were not accustomed. The ambiance became so oriental, Your poems even sang lines like

And I'm quoting

‘Sunday morning: Fog drifts like steam Across the windows of this room, lit like a jewel. “Like a Turkish bordello!"’

How good is your new lover’s coffee? Does he make you cut your own grapefruit? Does he add lingonberries from Sweden? Should I be generous? Should I send him lingonberries?

Well, that showed I was moving forward.

But here is a poem, that was the first poem that was ever accepted for publication, so that was my first published poem in a reputable good poetry magazine and it tells you the entire story of this love affair, and it’s called, Lingonberries Are Not Sufficient, is the title. And that already shows, you know, it’s a bit more subtle because reading this title doesn’t tell you anything about what it’s all about.

When we met

I spoke and you laughed.

Just laughed.

"Come live with me

And write.

I’ll feed and launder you."

You laughed and came.

For a man to feed his lover,

To do her laundry,

To really give her Virginia Woolf’s

Room of One’s Own

Is a serious gift

Not a laughing matter.

He-the tea drinker-learned to make coffee.

Her type of coffee.

The coffee grinder’s machine-gun rattle

Was morning music to her ears.

Dark French Roast, the only acceptable ammunition.

The first cup brought to her to her shower,

The next while she dried herself,

The third, fourth and fifth at breakfast.

The heated bagel.

The carefully segmented grapefruit

Coloured with his personal touch:

Lingonberries from Sweden.

You stopped laughing.

You wrote poems.

Like Scheherazade.

As long as she spun tales

She lived.

As long as you wrote,

Your pasha supported you

In a style to which you were not accustomed.

The ambiance became so oriental,

Your poems even sang lines like

And I'm quoting

"Sunday morning: Fog drifts like steam

Across the windows of this room, lit like a jewel.

'Like a Turkish bordello!'"

How good is your new lover’s coffee?

Does he make you cut your own grapefruit?

Does he add lingonberries from Sweden?

Should I be generous?

Should I send him lingonberries?

Well, that showed I was moving forward.

Austrian-American Carl Djerassi (1923-2015) was best known for his work on the synthesis of the steroid cortisone and then of a progesterone derivative that was the basis of the first contraceptive pill. He wrote a number of books, plays and poems, in the process inventing a new genre, 'science-in-fiction', illustrated by the novel 'Cantor's Dilemma' which explores ethics in science.